feels like coming home
by cassino
Summary: something about the bushy-haired girl's smile was as familiar to monica as breathing, and it struck a nerve in her mind. it was as if a memory was trying to surface in her mind but stayed stubbornly out of reach / monica wilkins and the girl who disappeared into thin air, post-war, for the houses competition


**a/n: **a huge thank you to aj for betaing this at lightning speed!

**forum: **the houses competition

**house: **ravenclaw

**year: **four

**category: **standard

**prompt: **[Speech] "Keep talking. I'm starting to believe you."

* * *

_**feels like coming home**_

_words: 1989_

* * *

The woman appeared out of nowhere.

Monica could have sworn that the bushy-haired girl had not been perusing the shelves of the bookstore across the street, just a second ago; but there she was, casually flipping through the pages of a book on Australian geography like she had been there all this time. Everyone else seemed to be oblivious to the stranger in their midst, almost as if she was invisible to their eyes, but Monica was quite sure that the woman was not a hallucination.

The brunette looked up, her eyes narrowed in concentration—was she searching for something?—and caught sight of Monica through the window of the small dental practice that she managed with her husband. Her eyes widened, and Monica looked away, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

What was she doing, gawping at the poor woman like a graceless teenager? She had work to do—five appointments that morning and lunch with a few friends if her planner was anything to go by. She didn't have any time to dawdle and stare at women who appeared out of thin air at eight in the morning.

Monica spared one last glance at the bookstore as she gulped down the last of her coffee, only to freeze again.

She was gone.

It was as if the woman had been swept away with the wind—not a single trace of her existence remained.

Monica blinked, staring at the dregs of her morning coffee as she wondered if the barista had slipped a hallucinogen into it while she wasn't looking.

_Perhaps Wendell is right, _she mused, smoothing her hair as she walked briskly into her office. _I really should get a few more hours of sleep. It certainly isn't a good sign—watching imaginary people disappear into thin air, first thing in the morning._

* * *

The doorbell was shrill as it echoed through the halls of the apartment, interrupting the peace and quiet of their home. Monica looked up, noting the surprise on her husband's face. So he hadn't been expecting anyone either.

He got up and walked to the front door, gesturing for her to be seated, a cautious expression replacing his initial confusion. They weren't usually visited by anyone they knew on Sunday evenings—not at this time of night. Monica clasped her hands in her lap, her rigid posture and white knuckles the only indication of her nerves.

The door clicked open and Wendell greeted the visitor, his voice a bit guarded, but polite. The answering voice was female, and it struck a nerve in Monica's mind like an old memory was trying to surface but remained stubbornly out of reach.

Her curiosity got the better of her and she made her way out of the library, towards the sound of the voices. Wendell's low chuckle reached her ears and she raised her eyebrows—not many people could make him laugh like that.

As she caught sight of the bright, grinning face of the bushy-haired girl she'd seen in the bookstore, just a few days ago, Monica stifled a groan. The woman had been haunting her dreams ever since that fateful morning of their encounter. Monica felt like she saw her everywhere: in her dreams, in random faces she saw in the streets of Sydney, and once, even in their apartment complex. Monica was, quite honestly, sick of being paranoid and thinking the woman was just a figment of her imagination. To see the woman stand before her, alive and breathing, was a relief as well as a cause for concern.

Had this woman been… _following _her all this time?

Monica managed a tight smile as the girl introduced herself as Hermione Granger, shaking her hand firmly. She'd apparently moved in next door, just a few days ago, and had wanted to meet them but never found the time. The conversation was pleasant, albeit a bit awkward and stilted, but it was to be expected since she didn't quite know what to make of Hermione yet.

Wendell invited Hermione for a nightcap, which she accepted with a brilliant smile (that grin was so _familiar, _Monica noted) and they moved to the library, as Hermione told them about her sudden, unexpected move to Australia and her two, crazy best friends who meant the world to her—if the sparkle in her eye was any indication.

It was quite late at night when Monica noticed it. Wendell had been describing an appointment particularly trying patient—involving two seagulls, one complicated root canal and far too much nitrous oxide. It hadn't been all that funny when it had happened all those months ago, but it was hilarious now and Hermione, laughing uproariously, had lifted a hand to stifle her giggles. The glinting sapphire encased in Hermione's silver bracelet had immediately caught Monica's eye.

She stiffened, her eyes roving suspiciously over Hermione's form as she brusquely questioned, "Who are you, Hermione Granger?"

The mirth in Hermione's eyes died and a mask of confusion enveloped her features. Monica saw right through the pretense—she _knew _the girl was hiding something, something huge, something that involved _her, _in some way or another. And she would find out. "I beg your pardon?" Hermione answered, in her pleasant British lilt. The same accent that she and her husband possessed—too out of place in Sydney, with its loud Australian brogue.

"You heard me. Who are you? I have seen that bracelet before—I have an exact copy of it. Its twin, my mother's, has been lost for years. So how did _you _come to own it, Hermione Granger?"

Hermione sighed, bowing her head as she toyed with the bracelet in question. A nervous habit, Monica supposed. "I have it because I am your daughter. Mum." She added the last word hesitantly, almost a whisper. Monica was quite sure the world had come to a complete standstill.

She recognised that smile now. It was her own.

"_Daughter?_" Wendell questioned, incredulously, looking between Monica and Hermione. "Monica… what? How?" Wendell's eyes hardened. "Have you been keeping secrets, dear?"

Monica looked at him coolly. "No. I haven't. I have never had a daughter, Hermione. I had decided, quite a long time ago, never to have children. So tell me, why do I not remember you, if you _are _my child like you claim to be?"

Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath. "Because I erased all the memories you possessed of me." She looked at Wendell, then at her. "You were Richard and Jean Granger, once. But due to… circumstances, and for your own safety I was forced to make you forget that I was your daughter."

Wendell's eyes were narrowed as he exclaimed, "But that's ridiculous! It is impossible to erase memories—especially with such precision. Memory loss isn't selective."

Hermione reached for something hidden up her sleeve—a wooden stick, about ten inches long, wrapped in an intricate design of vines. "It isn't if you are magical."

There was a deathly silence for a while, as Monica listened to her heart thunder in her ears.

And then, Wendell burst out laughing.

"I-I'm sorry, young lady, but _magic_? That is taking things too far. I might have believed you otherwise but—"

Whatever her husband was going to say next was interrupted by a small flock of canaries that burst out of the tip of the wooden stick and sailed across the room, exploding into a pile of feathers as it hit one of the bookcases. Monica stared at the golden feathers as they gently drifted to the ground.

"There was a war. There was a war, and I had to keep you out of it. It was the only way I could keep you safe—by making you forget me and living a happy life away from all the danger in Britain. I had hoped you find you after the war was over, but I can't believe that I'm standing in front of you, trying to explain everything that's happened to you. I'm not sure if I can reverse the Memory Charms, but… but, I can try, if you're alright with it…"

Monica looked up as she trailed off, and her breath caught upon seeing the despair and hope swirling in Hermione's eyes. Some unknown emotion tugged at her heartstrings and Monica answered, fighting to keep her voice cold and hostile. "Keep talking. I'm starting to believe you."

Hermione smiled tremulously. "This might be easier if I reverse your memory loss. You will understand everything much better then."

Monica looked to her husband, who was studying the young girl with a contemplative expression on his face. She could tell he didn't quite believe this magic memory loss thing—neither did she—but he nodded anyway.

Pursing her lips, she answered. "Alright, Hermione. Please, try not to kill us."

It was supposed to be a joke, but Hermione flinched as she raised her wand. Monica could see her lips form words, a white light surrounded her vision and that was all she knew.

* * *

"—And after the Death Eater trials were done, I set out to find you. My first stop was Canberra, but when I didn't find you there, I came here. Imagine my surprise when I saw Mum from the window of a bookshop. Oh… I'm sorry if I creeped you out by following you everywhere, Mum."

Hermione's words were met by silence. Jean looked at her daughter, studied the worry lines that had appeared between her eyebrows and the stubborn set of her mouth—like she was ready to face danger at any moment. She wondered what kind of world her daughter lived in—one which let children fight their battles for them and forced them to make their own parents forget about their existence. She didn't know if she liked her daughter being a part of that world.

Richard was sitting beside his daughter, her hand in his. While Jean had immediately turned on Hermione in a furious rage, Richard had comforted the girl through her painful sobs, easily forgiving Hermione for her actions.

He understood, he'd assured her. And he forgave her.

Jean hadn't.

It wasn't because Hermione had cut them off completely from a life they'd lived in peace and comfort for years. It wasn't because their daughter had taken away their memories without consulting them first, and against their will.

It was because Jean wasn't sure if she could ever trust her daughter anymore.

And that broke her heart. Because she _wanted_ to trust her daughter. But every time she felt confused about who she was—Monica or Jean, every time she looked at the sorrow marring Richard's face, the fury and distrust for Hermione came back with a vengeance.

"Mum?" Jean didn't meet Hermione's eyes. "Will you ever forgive me?"

Silence.

Hermione's sniffles transcended into quiet sobs and every motherly instinct in Jean screamed at her to comfort her child. But she couldn't. "I missed you every day, Mum. I regretted what I did every day. And now I-I can't bear the thought that you can't forgive me. I knew I was wrong, but you have to understand the fear—I did it all for _you. Please, _Mum."

Jean looked out of the window, clenching her hands as she heard Richard console Hermione over the loud ticking of the mantle clock. She couldn't bear this.

Turning towards the sobbing girl, Jean stroked the wild, untameable hair back from Hermione's face. She smiled, perhaps a bit less sincerely than usual, but it was a smile, nevertheless. "I will forgive you, sweetheart, perhaps not now. Perhaps a few months from now. But I will. You have had to go through far worse things than I ever imagined and perhaps I need to forgive myself for that. But just remember that I've always loved you—even when I didn't know who you were." Jean held Hermione up as she cried, words of comfort escaping her lips as silent tears trailed down her cheeks.

It wasn't perfect. They would take time to heal.

But perhaps, this was enough.


End file.
